Chapter 6
Janey
My mom always sets the table as if she’s expecting company, even when it’s only the three of us.
The plates are centered. The cutlery is aligned. The napkins are folded with more care than anyone could reasonably need. Everything has its place, everything is controlled, and everything is exactly as it should be.
It used to comfort me.
Now it feels like I’m being measured.
“You’re late,” she says when I step into the dining room, her tone light enough on the surface, though there’s always a sharper message beneath it.
“Five minutes,” I reply, setting my bag down by the door.
“Five minutes becomes a habit if you let it.” She smooths an already perfect napkin, as though even the smallest wrinkle is a personal failing.
My dad glances up from his seat and offers me a small smile, one that doesn’t quite make it past my mother’s presence. “Good to see you, sweetheart.”
“You too.” I lean down to kiss his cheek before taking my seat.
Lunch smells wonderful. Roast chicken and vegetables, warm and familiar that ought to make me feel at ease.
Instead, I feel off.
Tired, mostly, with a strange heaviness that sits behind my eyes and sinks into my limbs. I feel as if I haven’t slept properly, even though I know I have.
“Are you eating enough?” my mother asks, watching me as I pick up my fork.
I blink at her. “Yes.”
“You look pale.”
I do?
“I’m fine.”
She hums softly, clearly unconvinced. “You’ve been working too much. That clinic is demanding, and you’ve never known how to pace yourself.”
“I manage,” I say, keeping my tone even.
“You could always come back here,” she continues, returning to a conversation we’ve had a hundred times before. “There’s no reason for you to be out there on your own, running yourself into the ground, when you have a perfectly good home.”
I press my lips together and cut into the chicken a little more firmly than necessary.
“I like being on my own.”
“You think you do,” she corrects gently. “But independence isn’t the same as stability. One day, you’ll want something more solid.”
By solid she means predictable and acceptable.
An averagely good-looking man, with an average personality, who can give me an average amount of love and affection. Too good-looking would be too showy. Too extroverted would be a showoff. Being too into me would be weakness or obsession.
I don’t answer. Instead, I focus on my plate, though my appetite is nowhere to be found. The smell of the food, which should be delicious and comforting, suddenly feels too rich, and too heavy, turning strangely in my stomach.
I set my fork down.
“Not hungry?” my dad asks.
I reach for my water instead. “I had a late breakfast.”
My mother’s gaze follows the movement of my hand, narrowing slightly.
“You’ve barely touched your food.”
“I told you. Late breakfast.”
“Before you came to lunch? I’ve been slaving over this meal for hours.”
I force a small smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t notice the time.”
She doesn’t return it.
For a moment, silence settles over the table. It isn’t comfortable, but it isn’t quite tense either. It’s simply there, pressing in around the clink of silverware and the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
I take another sip of water, hoping it will settle whatever is happening in my belly.
It doesn’t.
If anything, the unease sharpens, curling low and unfamiliar. I shift in my seat and press my thighs together without thinking, but the small movement catches my attention. A thought flickers at the edge of my mind, insignificant at first, then suddenly impossible to ignore.
No. It can’t be.
My grip tightens around the glass. Saliva wells in my mouth.
Standing quickly, I bolt from the table, into the bathroom downstairs, and have barely enough time to flick the bolt before I heave over the toilet.
My belly contracts over and over as I’m sick, and then sick again.
My forehead beads with sweat as I drop to the floor and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
Maybe I ate something bad. But all I had yesterday was toast, a pretzel, and a bag of chips.
I hadn’t felt like eating much that wasn’t dry and salty.
Maybe it’s a bug. That wouldn’t be out of the question. I work with sick animals all day, every day, and meet lots of people. It’s easy to pick up viruses.
But when my stomach roils again, and I cup it with my hand, it seems rounder than usual.
No.
I frown, trying to chase the thought back into the shadows, but it slips out of reach before settling fully into place.
It can’t be.
I blink, and my pulse picks up. I’m on the pill, and I haven’t messed up with taking it.
It can’t be.
But the anxious wave of ‘it could be’ lingers as I wash my mouth out and brace to return to my parents.
I find them both still eating as if nothing happened.
“Janey,” my dad says, standing.
“I—” I shake my head quickly. “I’m okay. Probably a bug. I’m not feeling so great.”
My mother studies me again, her expression sharpening with interest rather than mild concern.
“You look tired.”
“I’m not. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
But I’m not fine. I’m panicking. “I should get going,” I say, already reaching for my bag.
“You just got here.” Mom balls up her napkin and tosses it onto the table, no longer bothered about the wrinkles.
I force another small smile, though it feels brittle at the edges. “I’ll call you later.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push, and somehow that makes it worse.
“Drive safely,” my dad says.
“I will.”
I leave before either of them can say anything else, my thoughts already racing ahead of me. By the time I reach my car, my hands are shaking.
This is ridiculous.
It’s nothing.
A little bug. Stress. A change in routine. Too much work. Too little rest.
That’s all.
Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.
I start the engine and pull out of the driveway, but I don’t head home.
The drugstore is only ten minutes away. The entire drive, I tell myself I’m overreacting. I tell myself it’s unnecessary, and that I’m letting one small thought get completely out of hand.
But I don’t turn the car around.
I park, step inside, and walk straight to the aisle before I can think too hard about what I’m doing. The box feels small in my hand. Too small for what it represents. Negative, and life goes on. Positive, and everything changes.
I pay quickly, barely registering the cashier, then walk back out into the afternoon light as if nothing has changed.
Except everything might have.
For a long moment, I sit in my car with the bag in my lap, staring down at it.
I’m taking the test to be sure. To have confirmation, so that I know how to treat the nausea.
That’s all.
Just to confirm that everything is fine.
I start the engine again with a ball of anxiety winding tighter in my chest, and my thoughts louder than ever.
***
I stand in my bathroom staring at a plastic stick, waiting for it to tell me a different result.
It doesn’t.
The two pink lines stay exactly where they are, clear and unmistakable, the same as the last test.
I grip the edge of the sink, my reflection wavering slightly as I try to calm my breathing. For a moment, I consider the possibility that this is all a mistake. Maybe I picked up a faulty box of tests, and stress might explain why I’m late.
But I know my body.
And I know exactly when it happened.
Nine weeks ago. One night.
But I’m on the pill. I rub the center of my forehead.
I know they say it isn’t one-hundred-percent effective, but I’m good at taking it on time.
Then, I remember the toothache and the antibiotics, and I close my eyes.
The realization settles in my chest with a slow, heavy certainty that makes it difficult to draw a full breath.
Fuck. Why didn’t I ask them to wrap it?
It’s a textbook failure, one I’ve warned others about in different contexts, yet I let my own 'good girl' conditioning blind me to the basic science of my own body. I forgot that I could be at risk because I wasn’t having sex with anyone when I took the antibiotics.
Because it was sexier raw, genius. And you wanted the whole filthy experience.
Because you trusted them to be clean because they’re Joelle’s family and they wouldn’t put you at risk.
Stupid.
But what’s the point of asking myself questions like that now? The chicken has well and truly flown the coop, got fucked by the roosters, and returned egg-bound.
I look down at the test again, as though staring at it long enough might make the lines fade, but they remain exactly as they are.
I set the stick carefully on the counter, then brace my hands on either side of the sink, forcing myself to think, because that’s what I do.
I think things through. I make plans. I solve problems.
Except this doesn’t feel like a problem I can neatly organize and fix. Somehow, I’ve gotten myself into exactly the same situation that Joelle was in two years ago. The situation I was shocked she’d allowed to happen.
Now, here I am, with a baby in my belly, and I don’t even know who the father is.
I laugh, imagining how the conversation with my mother would go. Even she couldn’t smooth this issue out like a wrinkle in a napkin.
I close my eyes briefly, and memories of Mason and Brookes rise without invitation: the first time I saw them in Joelle’s kitchen, larger than life and twice as handsome, in the barn, all rough and in charge, showing me what pleasure really meant, and after…
The way they kissed me by their truck, lingering, lit by the sunrise, as reluctant to part as I was.
And the messages where they tried to keep the connection alive, and I had to shut it down.
I told myself I could handle it. A few texts, nothing more.
But when they asked me out, I knew I couldn’t leave them hanging any longer.
Mason and Brookes had a way of slipping past the lines I tried to draw. I told myself I didn’t like it as much as I did.
But space and time haven’t done what I expected them to.
If anything, it’s made my desire for them sharper and more difficult to ignore.